


What You Left Behind

by Queerasil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Canon Divergence, Imaginary Sherlock, John Whump, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queerasil/pseuds/Queerasil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, John Watson is not the same. Good thing neither is Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Quiet Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/322978) by [ivyblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyblossom/pseuds/ivyblossom). 



> Inspired by 'The Quiet Man' by ivyblossom because it's amazing and wonderful.

**Notes: Post-Reichenbach canon divergence. First person present tense POV John. This fic was inspired by the amazing fic 'The Quiet Man' by ivyblossom, which you should totally go read. This fic will probably be many, many more chapters. Please enjoy!**

...

I look at the clock: 7:19 am; the second hand is just passing the minute mark. Any second now, Molly is going to come out and tell me - in a very sincere and apologetic voice - that Sherlock is dead; I know it. I know it. There's nothing else he can be; he fell four stories – straight onto the cold, unforgiving ground. I took his pulse, but it was gone - just like he was. Blood all over his curly hair, a giant gash on his forehead. One look in his vacant, hollow eyes and I could tell. One. Look. I can deduce to, although he never would've admitted that. Never. He was too proud to say that; too proud to say anything nice about me. And in the end he turned out to be a fake. A bloody fake. A goddamn bloody fake. And I was thick enough to fall for it. Thick, dumb, ordinary John. God, he would've laughed at me. There's no way he could've survived. No way. No human could survive that – _Sherlock Holmes isn't human, though, is he? He's a machine. That's what you called him. That's the last thing you called him._

Shut up. **Shut up**. Mrs. Hudson was dying, and he wouldn't come, and it's not my fault that he was so -

_Don't speak ill of the dead, John._

"Shut up," I mutter, and several people stare at me. One, a lady with a baby, turns slightly away from me. Sherlock would say, _She's scared of you, John. See that unconscious reaction she had to your outburst? Natural reaction for a mother to have when a predator –_

Oh my god, please leave me **alone**. The last thing in my head right now is **you** scolding me. You, who are obviously such an expert in human nature, figuring the fact that you're – you know – **dead**.

 _Death is a matter of perspective, John. It's what we leave behind that counts._ You – _Sherlock_ said that three years ago on a case. Three years ago. Not now. Not ever again. He's dead; he won't be saying anything new. Not now, not ever again.

I sigh, rubbing the worried lines on my forehead. I don't have time for this; not now, not ever. Where is Molly? How long has it been?

I glance at the clock again: 7:20 am; the second hand is just passing the minute mark. It's been exactly one minute. One minute of hell. One minute of pure, crazy, psychotic, dead-best-friend-talking-to-you-in-your-head hell. I can't even hold it together for one minute. Oh my god, how many more minutes are to come? Is it always going to be like this? Am I always going to hear his voice bouncing around inside my head as if he was standing right next to me? Oh god, oh god, no, no, no -

I look at the clock again; five seconds have passed. I feel like the hands of time are beating me to death. Where the hell is Molly? Why hasn't she come yet? Where is she? Is she just off doodling about? Is she –

Oh, there she is. Hands wringing, staring down at her feet, walking slowly towards me with frown on her face – _Of course she's frowning, John. I'm dead._

Shut up. Shut. Up. I don't want to hear it.

"John." Molly's sad voice pulls me back out of my head. She has blood-covered gloves stuffed in her pockets – Sherlock's blood? _Of course it's my blood, idiot._ Sherlock, please don't say that to me; I was just trying to… trying to be like you. I really – "John? John? Are you…"

My eyes snap up to meet hers. Tears prickle on the edge of her eyelashes. (Does she have mascara on? You – Sherlock would've noticed.) I try to speak, but my mouth won't open. It feels like it's been glued shut, or like it's gone altogether or –

Molly coughs politely. "John, he's…"

I know, Molly. I know. "Thank you," I manage to choke out, and my eyes sink back down to the floor. There's a stain a few feet in front of me: vomit, coffee, urine, or blood? You – _Sherlock_ would've known.

_Why are you thanking her, John? She just told you I'm dead._

It's the proper thing to do.

_Since when were you ever 'proper?'_

"John?" I look up at Molly again. Why is she still here? Can't she see I'm busy talking to my dead, invisible friend inside my head? "Do you want to see him?"

God. Yes. Of course I want to – no, I need to – see him. I should see him, at least, shouldn't I? That's what people do, isn't it, when someone dies?

_You're not people, John._

Like you'd know.

_Good made._

"John?" God she's patient. "Do you?"

"No." Why did I say that? Oh my god, why did I say that?

_Because it's true._

It's not true; you know it's not.

_You want to remember me as the silly detective in the funny hat._

No. No. No, I –

"There are some personal things for you as well," Molly says.

"Personal?" The word almost seems laughable in conjunction with Sherlock. Sherlock and personal are – were – on opposite ends of the spectrum. "What?"

Molly swallows thickly. Is she nervous? Why is she nervous? Should she be nervous? Anyway, she's nervous. "Some messages on his phone, and… Well, I figured you'd want his coat and scarf as well."

I nod. I do want his coat and scarf; I want to hold them, to touch them, to feel the last things Sherlock touched. I want to wear them and wrap themselves around me like a shock blanket. "Thanks," is all I can manage to say.

_Don't be so hard on Molly, John. She's trying to help._

I know, Sherlock. I know.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor John.


End file.
